


Dinner and Decisions

by helsinkibaby



Series: Inside the Tornado [23]
Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "We Killed Yamamoto." What drove Leo to the White House that night to talk to the President. Twenty third in the "Inside the Tornado" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner and Decisions

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

You know, it strikes me as we make our way through the city, that we really must have done something to piss off the Gods, because it just seems as if the month of May does not like us. Almost a year ago to the very day, I sat beside the President, in a car not unlike this one, driving through the streets of Washington in the pouring rain, on our way to a Press Conference at the State Department, with him having just announced that he had Multiple Sclerosis, had concealed it from the electorate, and having earlier on that day buried a woman who meant the world to him.

Two years ago, again, almost to the very day, we walked out of a town hall meeting in Rosslyn, and walked into a hail of bullets that shot him and nearly killed Josh. The repercussions of that day echoed through the halls of the West Wing for a long time, and there's still a part of me that's uneasy when we're all walking around together in the open air.

This May is shaping up to be no different.

There are death threats against CJ, and we've had to assign her Secret Service protection. Robert Ritchie's campaign staff are doing quite well with their dumbass candidate, spinning what needs to be spun and playing Sam like a violin. He's taking a while to come out of this one, and while Toby told us that he wants Sam to stay mad, that he wants him to see the Ritchie campaign as blood enemies, I'm not so sure that the damage to Sam doesn't go deeper than that. We looked like we were going to win the fight with the Working Towards Independence Act, a win we badly needed; then Josh and his pillow talk put the hammer to that one. Amy Gardner has mobilised support more quickly than we could have anticipated, and we've taken a huge drop in support.

All of this would be cause enough for concern, were it not for the fact that there have been credible threats against us; threats of domestic terrorism. Last week, I was trying to get the President to get himself into a frame of mind where he could go down to the bunker, order an unidentified plane shot down if needs be.

Last week, we found out that the Qumari Defense Minister, a man who purports to be an ally, who is supposed to be feeding us intelligence, may in fact have been behind the attacks. For the last week, we've been given more and more intelligence, all pointing to the same thing.

Abdul Shareef was instrumental in the plan to destroy the Golden Gate Bridge.

This man, this man who next week is coming to this country under the flag of friendship, who is going to stand in the Oval Office and shake hands with the President, is part of a band of people who are threatening to attack this country, hurt innocent men, women and children.

How do you deal with that? How?

Fitz and the National Security team have put together a number of options for us, and I'm not so sure which one the President is going to go for. But I do know that he has to make a decision soon.

I know that I should be at the White House now, trying to help him make that decision.

However, I had plans for this evening, plans that I really didn't want to cancel. When the President told me to leave, that he wanted to think this out for himself, I nodded, said "Thank you Mr President," and told Margaret that she could go home. Then I found my guy, and told him to bring me to Ainsley's place.

Barring disaster were the words she used when she invited me over here tonight, and I could have cancelled. But the disaster hasn't come to pass yet, even though I know that it's around the corner. I've got a pretty good idea that she knows it too, that she's figured out that there's something going on in the West Wing, but she knows better than to ask me about it. She just tries to draw me out of myself, take me away from my bad mood, and she almost always succeeds. I've long since come to rely on her as my rock, and I thank God that she's been here for me this week.

God knows, I don't deserve it.

But somehow, some way, she fell in love with me. And she stayed in love with me, even though I did my best to screw it up. We've been slowly getting back to where we were this time last year, and I get the feeling that she's planning tonight as another step in the right direction. There was a look in her eyes last week in the coffeehouse when she invited me over, something that made me think that there was more to her invitation to dinner at her place than met the eye, but I couldn't for the life of me think of what it was. It didn't stop me from accepting, knowing that if it was something significant, she'd tell me, or it would come to me on its own.

As it happened, it was the President who gave me the answer.

We had an intelligence meeting on Sunday morning, and afterwards, I needed to talk to the President. He told me that we couldn't meet in the Oval Office, that he had to be somewhere, but that I was more than welcome to come in the car with him. We met Charlie on the way, and if I lifted an eyebrow in surprise when I saw that he had two small bouquets in his hands, then I didn't say anything. It was only when we were on our way to the cemetery that the President told me what they were doing. That on Tuesday, it would be a year since Mrs Landingham was killed, and that since the likelihood was slim that he'd be free on Tuesday to put flowers on her grave, he was going to do it that day.

That's when I remembered.

Tuesday is also today, which is the day that Ainsley asked me over to her place for dinner. And if it's the anniversary of the day that Mrs Landingham died, then it's also the anniversary of the night that Ainsley and I made love for the first time. We'd been waiting up to then, for what, I don't know, but when I went to her that night, when I gave her the news, she held on to me as if she was afraid to let me go, and I was holding on to her just as tightly. Then she kissed me, asked me if I'd stay, and I had to be honest with her, had to tell her that if I did, I wouldn't be able to content myself with holding her, as I had for the past few nights. Her smile was one of acceptance, and we didn't speak after that, not until much later. We'd waited long enough, had just had a reminder that life was too short to worry about things like politics and what people would think of us.

And now, here it is, exactly a year later, and I'm making the same journey now that I was then, wondering if the outcome is going to be the same.

When she opens the door to me, just like last year, a huge smile lights up her face. Unlike last year however, she doesn't step into my arms; rather, she takes a step back, showing me into the apartment, reaching up to take my coat. It's only when she hangs it up that she turns to me, tilts her head curiously, narrowing her eyes. "Are you all right?" are her first words, and I nod hurriedly.

"I'm fine," I tell her, slipping off my jacket too, loosening my tie before deciding to take it off altogether and stuffing it in my jacket pocket.

She doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure?" she asks.

The way she's looking at me has me nodding again, even smiling, trying to inject some sense of normality into the evening. Her worried face blurs momentarily though, turning into Fitz's worried face in the Situation Room today, and I rub my hand over my eyes to clear the image. "I'm fine," I repeat, and even to my own ears, my voice sounds worn, tired. "It was just quite a day."

She sighs in sympathy, stepping closer to me, laying one hand on my shoulder. "Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes," she says quietly. "You want to go into the couch until then?"

My hand reaches up to cover hers, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. "That sounds nice."

There's music playing on the stereo when I sink down onto the couch, something choral by the sounds of it, and while I would normally consider turning on the news to see what they're saying about us, that's the last thing on my mind tonight. So I make myself as comfortable as I can, tilting my head back on the cushions and closing my eyes, the music from the stereo, the assorted noises of cooking from the kitchen, even the muted tones of Ainsley singing whatever tune is in her head, a balm to my addled mind.

The next thing I know, her hand is once more on my shoulder, shaking me slightly, and I hear her voice saying my name softly. I blink, looking from left to right, frowning in confusion, then shaking my head in mortification when I realise what's happened. "Oh God, Ainsley, I'm sorry…" I begin, not quite sure of what to say. She's gone to all this trouble of inviting me over, cooking me a nice dinner, and here I am, falling asleep on her before I've even been in the door for five minutes.

I wouldn't blame her for being upset with me, but she just shakes her head slightly, an amused little smile on her lips. "I almost didn't want to wake you up," she confides, still speaking softly. "You looked so peaceful there…" Her voice trails off and she rests one arm on the back of the couch, propping her head up on it, looking down at me.

I twist slightly so that I can see her better, looking up to see that same smile still on her lips. It's a smile that I recognise, one that I got used to seeing last summer. It's the smile that she used to have on her face when I'd catch her watching me as I was doing something completely ordinary, like reading, or doing the Times crossword. The first few times I noticed it, I asked her what she was smiling at, and she would just blush and say "Nothing." After a little while, I realised she was never going to tell me, so I stopped asking her, unless I was in the mood to see that blush spreading across her cheeks.

She's blushing now under my gaze, and I haven't even said anything. I reach up, touching her cheek with my hand, feeling its warmth against the coolness of my palm, and she presses into the touch, closing her eyes. As the words "God, you're beautiful," slip past my lips, there's a rush of heat against my palm, and her eyes flicker open.

"Leo…" she whispers, but that's all she can say before I meet her lips with mine.

This isn't the first time that I've kissed her since we've been seeing one another again. That was in her office during the First Lady's birthday party. And since we were standing the West Wing, mere feet away from the biggest names in politics, not to mention a huge press presence, it was a fairly gentle, if hugely emotional, kiss. After that, we began meeting one another at the coffeehouse again, and I'd walk her to her car at the end of the evening. Standing on street corners isn't exactly conducive to romantic moments, so much of the time I found myself either kissing her lips or her cheek quickly before she got into her car and drove away. Even last week, when she invited me here for dinner, the kiss at the end of the night was a quick affair. Our relationship has never been about that anyway; it's never been about sex. It's always been about the two of us, talking, laughing, or not talking as the case may be.

That's as maybe, but this kiss is nothing like the kisses that we've been sharing over the last few weeks, not by a long shot. Maybe it started off that way, but it rapidly escalated, her mouth opening to mine, my body reaching towards hers, arms going around her waist, holding her tightly. Her arms wrap around my neck and she slides forward on the couch, moving so that she's straddling my body, my hands sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. Through all of this, our lips never separate, and the thought, the one thought that goes through my mind is that I don't want this to end.

But end it must, and she's the one who pulls away, breathing harshly. She doesn't move from her position against me though, and rests her forehead against mine. "This really isn't what I had in mind when I asked you over here," she whispers.

I chuckle, pressing my lips against her neck, then moving downwards. "Want me to stop?" I ask, making no moves to, and I feel the laughter in her throat as it vibrates against my lips.

"Never," she responds, arching her neck to give me better access. She takes a deep breath in, then gasps, and while I'd like to take the credit for it, she stands up quickly, disappearing into the kitchen. I'm slightly confused, then the smell of burning reaches me, and I find myself chuckling as I follow her. I cross my arms as I lean against the open door, only to see her standing over the sink, emptying out a saucepan, then peering at the bottom curiously.

"Think it's dead?" I ask, and she turns around, cheeks pink, smile sheepish.

"I don't know if you are referring to the sauce, or to the saucepan, but either way, I fear that the answer must be yes." She drops the pan into the sink with a clatter, resting both hands on the counter behind her, sighing as she looks at me. "You'll have steak without sauce?"

My stomach growls at the mere mention of food, and it's audible clear across the room because she giggles. "Yes," I tell her needlessly, crossing the room, putting my arms around her waist again. "I will have steak without sauce." I kiss her again, quickly this time, and she grins against my lips, stepping away to serve up dinner.

"I hope it's all right," she tells me, putting the meat on the plates, the vegetables appearing in dishes of their own, putting them on the table one by one.

"Well, the lack of sauce is gonna lose you a star for sure," I deadpan, taking a handful of dishes from her, bringing them over to the table.

She laughs indignantly. "Well, considering I'd only left the sauce to simmer, convinced I'd get back to it, until somebody interrupted me…" There's great emphasis on the "somebody" and her eyes are sparkling with laughter, even as she's mock-glaring at me.

"So, you're going to blame me for everything?" I parry, and she just nods.

"Why change the habit of a lifetime?" she asks airily, and I shake my head, deciding that the better part of valour is discretion, holding up the jug of water in a wordless question. When she nods, I pour her a glass, filling my own too, and by the time that's done, she's sitting down, ready to start. "Should we toast?" she asks, picking up her glass, and I think she's surprised when I shake my head.

"We can't toast with water," I tell her. Her eyes widen, and I supplement my reply with, "It's bad luck."

She stares at me for a second, then she bursts out laughing, finally managing to wheeze, "Tell me the President told you that."

I'm laughing as I reply that the President did indeed tell me that, on many many occasions, and she shakes her head. "Well, thank you for sharing that." She takes a sip of water, but doesn't move to make a toast, and I'm quite thankful for that, because the one thing we do not need is more bad luck. We've had quite enough for several lifetimes.

"What's the music?" I ask her after a second, because I have to admit, I'm quite enjoying it. Ainsley and I don't always have the same tastes in music - she's got a thing for George Strait that I've never quite understood, and once I spent the day walking around the West Wing trying to get The Wells Fargo Wagon out of my head, because she'd been blasting The Music Man as she cooked the previous night. This however is nice.

She grins. "You should get used to it. You're going to be listening to it in person next week."

It takes a second for that to sink in before I realise what she means. "Oh, you mean this is the thing?"

"The War of the Roses Leo," she tells me, in the tone that makes me feel like I'm being scolded. The President uses it on me quite often. "Surely the President has been expounding on it at length?"

I roll my eyes. "If I hear one more word about Henrys and Richards and English monarchs…" I threaten, and she giggles.

"Is that your polite way of asking me to change the subject?"

"It's like being permanently surrounded by Lord John Marbury," I tell her. "I keep expecting him to be invited along."

There are more giggles from across the table. "That'd be interesting," she tells me, and I give her my "Margaret, look at my face" look. Her eyes widen, affecting innocence, and she holds up her hands. "What? I personally find Lord John Marbury to be very charming and eloquent, not to mention a lively conversationalist…"

I chew my bite of steak carefully, trying not to choke on it. "He's quite enamoured of you too," I tell her, and genuine surprise lights her face. "He made a point of telling me at the First Lady's birthday party that a lady like you is worth her weight in gold. That I should remember that."

Her fork clatters to the table, and I reach across and take her hand. "He knows?" Her voice is soft with amazement, and I shrug.

"It appears that His Lordship is more perceptive than he's given credit for. Also more discreet." I run my thumb across the back of her knuckles. "In this case, he's also right."

She looks down, clearly flattered, and I wonder if she ever thought she'd see the day that I'd agree with Lord John Marbury about anything. The silence lingers for a moment before I clear my throat, breaking the spell that seems to have fallen over us. "So, you're playing a five hour CD over dinner…just how much food did you cook?"

She laughs, and I withdraw my hand, getting back to my own dinner. "I merely thought," she tells me, "That it might behove you to familiarise yourself with the music to which you will be listening next week."

A grimace twists my lips. "I don't know how much of it I'm going to see. We're going to schedule the welfare vote for next Wednesday."

She blinks, then realises. "To give Amy Gardner less time to mobilise the vote?" I lift an eyebrow, and she grins. "Donna told me about it."

"Ah." I can just imagine Donna's slant on things. "That was the plan," I confirm. "Also, we were looking for an excuse not to go to New York."

"Because you heard that Governor Ritchie was also going to be there and you didn't want the two of them in the same room together." I'm not sure if that was Donna, general gossip, or her own supposition, but I nod, because she's right on the money as usual. "So what's changed?"

"We forgot to ask the President. And he doesn't want to cancel on the Church," I tell her simply, because that's the truth. She lets a breath out in a low whistle.

"So you're trying to manage the vote and go to a fundraiser at the same time?"

"Yeah." Not to mention God knows what else might be going on next Wednesday because of Shareef's visit. As soon as that thought comes into my head, my stomach twists, and the meal, delicious as it is, loses a little of its flavour. I try to get my features under control as soon as I notice it, but I'm not quick enough, because she tilts her head, looking at me curiously.

"Well, it's not ideal…" Her voice trails off, as if she's trying to ascertain if that really is all that's bothering me, and I do my best to convince her of that.

"We need this win Ainsley," I tell her, and now it's her turn to reach over and lay her hand across mine for a second. I smile at the brief contact, miss it when it's taken away. "On the bright side, Josh is gonna have to stay behind to work the vote, so we've a spare ticket."

Her eyes light up, then dim, and she smiles sadly. "I wish I could take you up on that."

I sigh, my casual words an impossibility right now, and both of us know it. Last year, I didn't care who knew that I was involved with Ainsley. But as summer progressed, and the chill of autumn was accompanied by the spectre of hearings and bad press and scandal, we realised that we were going to have to keep us a secret for a while longer. Then, after Christmas, telling people wasn't an issue anymore because there was nothing to tell them.

Now there's something to tell them again, but we're six months away from the election, and we can't afford the scandal of the White House Chief of Staff dating an Associate Counsel. Especially not one who got a promotion so recently. It could be disastrous to both our careers, not to mention to the President, and neither of us want that.

So we're back to where we were a year ago; stealing moments from the day wherever we can, cherishing the time we do have together.

You know, it's really not that bad of a thing.

"I wish you could too," I tell her.

She lays down her fork again for a moment, taking a sip of her water. "There's something else bothering you though, isn't there?" she asks me, and I study her face for a long moment before I even think about answering. She's not overly concerned, nor is she asking for any political reason. She just knows me, knows my moods, knows when something is wrong. She takes my silence as assent, because she continues, "You can talk to me about it you know. Whatever it is."

I nod, but I really can't. She can't know anything about Shareef and what we're planning to do. But she's expecting an answer, and when I look up at her, words come out of my mouth without me consciously thinking about them. "I was talking to the President today, and we were talking about moral dilemmas." It's a tiny lie, but one told in a good cause. The President and I have discussed moral dilemmas, and done it recently, but it's Fitz that I was talking to today, and his words echo in my ears.

"Can you tell when it's peace time or war time anymore?"

"We measure the success of a mission by two things: was it successful? And how few civilians did we hurt? They measure success by how many."

"You’re talking to me about international laws? The laws of nature don’t even apply here!"

"What was the conversation about?" Her curious words pull me back to reality, and I struggle to come up with an analogy.

"We were talking about the notion of absolute evil versus a greater good. If it's ever right to do the wrong thing."

She takes a bite of her meal, chewing slowly, head moving from side to side as she considers it. A swallow of water washes it down, then she speaks. "Situational ethics you mean?" she asks.

"Something like that," I say, shifting slightly in my seat, because we're a little beyond situational ethics here.

"Well then…I think that sometimes it's all right. I mean, suppose I know something about someone, and I'm asked about it. I know that nothing good can come of telling, in fact only bad can come of it. So when I'm asked, I say I know nothing. Technically, I may have lied, but who have I really hurt?"

I nod, knowing that she has a point, but we've only just scratched the surface. "What about Hitler?" I find myself asking, and she blinks in confusion. "If you could go back," I continue. "To the 1930s, or further. Find a young Adolf Hitler, kill him…would you do it? Would you commit the murder of one man to save the millions of people who died indirectly at his hand?"

She takes a deep breath, blows it out between pursed lips. Her meal is forgotten momentarily as she ponders it, and finally, she shakes her head, her eyes meeting mine. "I don't know," she tells me honestly. "Part of me wants to say yes. The other part of me… what if someone worse filled the gap, replacing him?"

"And what if," I continue, taking the opposite tack. "The Second World War never happened? Millions of lives are spared…maybe the Cold War doesn't happen, or at least not the way we knew it."

"Who's to say it wouldn't be worse?" she asks.

"Who's to say it would?"

She stares at me silently for a minute, then once more shakes her head. "Then I thank God that I don't have to be the one to make that decision."

I take a deep breath. "Yeah," is all I say, because I do have to be the one to make that decision, and I honestly don't know what to do for the best.

A silence settles over the table, and it's not one of the comfortable familiar silences. It's heavy and tension filled, and Ainsley senses that, shaking herself lightly. "Well, haven't we gone all dark and gloomy," she says, smiling a bright smile that doesn't reach up to her eyes.

"That's my fault," I tell her. "Going off like that…I'm sorry."

She waves a hand. "It's fine," she tells me. Then her eyes widen, and she leans across the table slightly. "To lighten the subject a little…did you hear about Margaret and Bruno?"

I frown. "Please don't tell me that he's done something to upset her." Because I know she doesn't like him, and that he can never remember her name, and she's done more complaining about him over the last few months than I can ever remember her doing about anyone.

It looks to me very much like Ainsley is trying to stifle a giggle. "Oh, far from it," she tells me, and I make a "continue" gesture with my hands. "Last week, he gave her a present."

"What kind of present?"

"A necklace," Ainsley tells me. "With her name on it. She's been wearing it most of this week Leo, I'm surprised you haven't noticed it."

"I don't notice jewellery," I tell her. "Unless you're wearing it."

Her cheeks flush scarlet at that, and I bite my cheek to keep from grinning. "You're doing that on purpose," she accuses, and I shrug easily.

"I'll stop if you want," I tell her, but she doesn't say anything about that.

"I'll want to hear all about the play you know," she tells me, changing the subject so rapidly that it takes me a while to process what she's talking about.

"I'm not sure how much sense I'll be able to make of it," I tell her, and that's her cue to launch into a detailed synopsis of the play, complete with impromptu bursts of song. I interrupt every once in a while with questions, or requests for clarification, but that's a topic of conversation that takes us safely away from danger areas, into the banter with which we're more familiar, although all the time, in the back of my mind, my moral dilemma, what advice I should give to the President, is still on my mind. But her review of the show continues, and I try to focus on that, and she continues through to the end of dinner, and through dessert, which, I'm amazed to see, is cheesecake and chocolate cake, as served at our regular haunt.

"You really went all out," I say in wonder, and she grins at me, leading me back into the living room.

"Well, I wanted to do something nice for you," she tells me, dropping gracefully down on to the couch and smiling up at me. I take the invitation, sitting down beside her and draping my arm around her. She snuggles up against me, resting her cheek against my chest, and I smile to myself.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," I tell her softly, my fingers dancing through the ends of her hair. "Just being here, with you…that's enough for me."

She sighs, her breath raising goosebumps on my neck. "We've had a long year haven't we?"

That comment is enough to confirm my suspicions that she remembers what we were doing this time last year, and I nod slowly. "There were times I wasn't sure we'd make it," I say frankly, and she lifts her head, eyes wide as she stares at me.

"Have we made it?" she whispers, and my heart lurches at the fear and hope I see in her face.

"We're here," I shrug. "We're together. No matter what's happened, or what will happen… that can't be bad, right?"

"No," she whispers, before she leans forward, just a fraction of a millimetre, a movement so slight that I would have missed it had I not been waiting for it. Her pause is obvious, significant, and time seems to slow down, because I see the decision being made in her eyes, and it takes a long time before her lips meet mine, although I know that in reality, it can only be a few seconds. The kiss is almost an exact replica of the kiss we shared before dinner, except that this time, I know that there's no danger of burning dinner to stop us. No-one knows I'm here, although my cell phone is in my pocket, and I'm not expecting any calls, and I'd lay any odds that her answering machine is switched on too. There's nothing to disturb us as she once more slides across my lap, straddling me, as my hands move through her hair, down her back, and lower still.

There's nothing to stop us doing just what we did on this night a year ago.

Nothing except me that is.

Her face falls when I pull back, and I lift my hand, pushing her hair away from her face, tucking it securely behind her ears. She takes a couple of deep breaths, then her hands go to my chest, and there's a tiny smile on her face when she speaks. "I guess my grand plan of seduction goes for naught, huh?"

Wonder of wonders, her tone is somewhat humorous, and her eyes dance with mischief. "It's not you," I tell her, and I hope that she can hear the sincerity in my voice. "Believe me, there's nothing I want more…"

She grins, shifting against me slightly, a wicked grin on her face. "I had an idea," she drawls, her accent only about a thousand times more pronounced.

"Funny girl," I laugh. "I wish I could stay Ainsley…"

She cuts me off, cutting right to the heart of the matter, as she always does. "This is to do with your moral dilemma, isn't it?" I feel my eyes widen, and she shrugs. "There's something going on with you Leo…something serious. You don't need to tell me what it is; I've told you that before. I trust you. And I'm here for you, for whatever it is you need."

I let out a long breath. "I want to stay with you Ainsley," I tell her again. "I just don't want it to be when this thing is…"

"I understand," she replies. "It's just…"

Her voice tapers off and I look at her curiously, prompting her when she doesn't continue. "Just what?"

She sighs, looking at me with troubled eyes. "Just that I don't think you'd be taking this so much to heart if you hadn't already made a decision that you weren't happy with."

I stare at her for a long, long moment, her words sinking into my mind, into my heart, recognising the truth in them. Once I do that, there's only one thing for me to do. I reach up, placing my hand on the back of her neck, bringing her head down to mine, touching our lips together again. This time, the kiss is more gentle, more like the kisses we've been sharing for the last number of weeks, and when I draw away, I give her a smile. "I have…"

She nods, the same kind of smile on her face. "…To go see the President? I figured." She slithers off my lap, standing up and heading straight for the door. I think that she's going to show me out until she grabs her coat from the coat-stand, slipping it on, and finding her keys on the hall table. She turns then, looks at me standing there, and holds out her hands in confusion. "What are you waiting for?"

Something in her voice, in the way she's looking at me makes me chuckle. "What are you doing?" I ask her in amazement.

"I'm taking you to the White House," she replies, talking to me as if I'm a child.

"There's no need, I can take a cab," I protest, but she's not taking no for an answer, crossing her arms over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently.

"I'll drop you off around the corner," she promises, as if the fear that someone will see us is what's stopping me.

"I don't like taking you out of your way…" I make one final attempt, and she laughs.

"You're not taking me. I'm taking you. Now, are you coming or not?"

I shake my head, walking towards her, putting one hand on her hip, leaning forward and pressing my lips to her forehead. "You're amazing," I tell her, words that cause a blush to race up her cheeks.

"You're not too bad yourself," she murmurs, standing on her toes to press her lips to mine. "Come on, let's go." We don't say another word as she leads me out of the apartment, and drives me to the White House to talk to the President.


End file.
